The poetry and ramblings of Jesse Barnhart

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Nothing to see here

I see the face of a man
a pained grimace
with hollowed with sunken eyes
gazing through the tinted mirror

Death perhaps of youth? Perhaps–
his spry fondness of life
nothing but a scripted shake of the head–
optimism a mere cuss only matched
by the mythical mutterings of hope– he shivers, I shiver,
I stare deeper into my reflection.

I’m amazed, how I can read the years and
how they dance on, small blemishes and
scars–a flesh diary of
ghosts and missed chances, I’m left in
a harsh revelation:

I’ve gotten nowhere fast
but the heart continued to beat
even after being shattered and empty
the blood pushes through the void

carrying me to the tattered pages
reading and rereading onward
myths of spiritual freedom
as I’m tied down to the debts of
society, education, and kin.

I can do nothing but wonder what’s out
there, the red Colorado sands,
gaping canyon of the west, ocean tides calling
but I’m here stuck in the land
of the rising sun, praying
I’m not still here when it
sets.

The Vagabond calls out with
stifled wanderlust tears
I’m left just to write onward,